


Thirty Thousand to the Rest

by scheherazade



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Getting Together, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-12 01:44:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Let me guess," Espera says, "you found a box labeled 'free kittens', and your white savior heart couldn't stand by and let a poor animal suffer, not while America was still the land of military invasions and gunpoint democracy."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirty Thousand to the Rest

**Author's Note:**

> My only excuse is that this all started as chatfic; the id wants what id wants. Title is, of course, from "To His Coy Mistress" by Andrew Marvell. The stray line of Greek later on comes from Pythian 2, and translates roughly as "but to others [the gods] give un-aging glory." 
> 
> All thanks and credit to [acchikocchi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/acchikocchi) for 1) getting me into the fandom, 2) chatficcing 35,000+ words of this over one weekend, and 3) beta'ing the resultant fic.
> 
>  **Warning** for discussion of (off-screen) sexual assault in the final third of the fic.

* * *

 

That Friday, he comes home to a cat on his doorstep. It's a pale ginger ball of scruff, looks at him with round eyes and meows a thin, pitiful sound.

Brad lets it in.

The cat prowls around, poking its head into corners and sniffing at the shoes by the door. There isn't too much for it to explore. The off-campus apartment he shares with Ray is a cramped 2BR1BA affair — actually, it's more like one bedroom and a converted walk-in closet. Thank god Ray is skinny enough to fit into a car trunk at need, because there's no way they could have gotten Brad's extra-long mattress in there. Ray never goes into his own room except to sleep anyway. He's usually sprawled on the living room floor, speed-reading books or keymashing at his laptop. 

It's not a huge change from freshman year, when Brad routinely came back to their shared double at one a.m. on Saturdays to find Ray passed out at his desk. Ray claims he suffers from acute narcolepsy. Brad thinks it's the excessive quantities of Red Bull he chugs during the week.

There's a can of coke in the fridge, next to the milk, along with some leftover eggs. He puts the egg on a plate and puts the plate on the floor. The cat eats like it hasn't seen food in days.

He leaves the door unlocked for Ray and goes to work on his comp sci assignment.

Two hours later, a yelp shakes him out of codespace and back into reality. Ray is home. Ray has found the cat — and is now engaged in a stare-down in the middle of the living room. 

The cat's tail twitches. Ray backs away slightly.

"What the fuck is that?"

"It showed up earlier," Brad explains. "Think it was hungry."

Ray makes a strangled sound. "Is it diseased? Does it belong to someone? What if it tries to bite us?"

Brad goes over to the cat, who stops bristling at Ray and looks up at him with a weirdly trusting expression. "It's perfectly tame."

"It's gonna shit on the floor."

"I can put out a cardboard box or something."

"Are you _keeping_ it?"

"For now."

"Okay, well," Ray says skeptically, "we're going to Emory for the tournament, so. Don't get killed while I'm gone."

"It's just a cat."

"They're predators."

While Ray is out debating the world into submission, Brad walks around the neighborhood and looks for lost cat posters. He puts an ad up on craigslist: _FOUND: Pale orange cat, male, no id. Found at Colonial Apts near Trombley Rd. If yours please contact. Thanks._ He finds a plastic tub in their storage closet, buys some cat litter, and hopes to hell that his instincts are right.

In the morning the carpet bears a few scratch marks near the door, but there's a distinct smell rising from the makeshift litter box. The cat is perched on the kitchen counter. It meows at him.

Ray returns on Monday to find a hemp pole thing standing in the corner, next to their shoes.

"What is that?"

"Scratching post," Brad tells him.

 

* * *

 

"A cat?" 

Espera sucks on his cigarette. Brad surreptitiously moves so he's walking upwind of the smoke. 

"Let me guess," Espera says, "you found a box labeled 'free kittens', and your white savior heart couldn't stand by and let a poor animal suffer, not while America was still the land of military invasions and gunpoint democracy."

"To the best of my knowledge, Americans have never invaded a country to save cats."

"Better if they did, dawg. Not even this permanent military-industrial complex could handle that, if every time a communist's pussy mewled they followed up with tanks and marines."

Brad can't help smiling at the mental image. He appreciates Espera's company, despite his abrasive exterior. Besides, Brad figures that if freshman year hadn't been enough to make Espera shun him and Ray forever, then nothing ever would.

(The rest of their freshman dorm don't even talk to Ray anymore, after two semesters of Ray blasting Lady Gaga at full volume anytime he had a serious essay to write. Mathilda House was notoriously empty during finals, leaving Brad and Ray to commandeer the common room along with all its riches — namely, the microwave, the snack machine, and some truly exquisite architectural acoustics.

Espera had walked in one midnight weary to ask if they wanted to get pizza — right in the middle of a rousing _Pocahontas_ singalong. The music swelled with violins. Espera gave them a flat look. And marched right back out. 

Brad and Ray exchanged a glance. "With all the colors," Ray crooned, and Brad joined in, "oooof theeee wiiiiiiiiind."

"Thank you, Brad."

"Thank _you,_ Ray."

A door slammed upstairs. " _Yo, Baptista! You know any carnivorous motherfuckers who won't fuck my shit up with racist animated movie soundtracks and wants pizza?"_ )

 

* * *

 

The cat paces at the door when it wants to be let outside. The first time this happens, Brad wonders if it's going home. A couple hours later, there's a scuffling sound outside his window. He pulls the blind to find that the cat has climbed the ivy and is now hanging precariously onto the ledge. 

He undoes the latch; the cat jumps onto his bed and makes a nest in his blankets. Brad scratches behind its ears. The cat purrs like a blender on low.

It likes to invade Brad's personal space. It also likes to invade Ray's verbal space. 

"It's all about Martha, homes. Martha motherfucking Jones saved the human race with a story and that is the _point_ —"

"Mrrow. Mrow mrow."

"—entire show. It's all about stories, our stories and us people on the ground like her, not—"

"Mrrooow!" 

"—shut _up,_ cat."

"We could give him a name," Brad says. 

Ray looks across the pizza they're sharing. The cat eyes the slice in Ray's hand.

"Huh?"

"Like Trombley. The cat from Trombley Road."

"Why the road?"

"Because 'Colonial Cat' is stupid."

"The _cat_ is stupid."

"Mrrrrow."

"Shut up, Trombley," Ray snaps.

 

* * *

 

Nobody ever answers the craigslist ad. There are no missing cat posters. 

Trombley chews on Ray's slippers and curls up with Brad when he's eating cereal in front of the TV. Ray threatens to call animal control at least once a week, but two cat toys mysteriously appear by the scratching post one day. Trombley is fascinated by the little llama on a string.

"Better a stupid toy than my footwear," Ray grumbles when Brad catches him playing with the cat.

 

* * *

 

The text message reads: _Hi Brad. Sorry to bother, but do you guys have a working oven at your apartment?_

Brad goes to the kitchen and turns the dial. He just about rescues a bag of chips somebody (Ray) left on the middle rack before it catches fire.

 _yup_ , he writes back, _hot enough to plath a poet._

Friday evening, Brad is putting on a clean shirt after his shower when he hears a yowl from outside. He goes to the door. Trombley is chasing a dog six times his size and trying to bite its face; the Great Dane looks bewildered.

"Trombley," Brad calls. "Get away from there."

Both animals look up at his voice. Brad taps at the door, and Trombley sulkily trots back. He's almost got the cat inside when Nate appears around the corner. Trombley arcs and darts toward him.

Brad opens his mouth to yell at the cat again. But Nate is crouching down, offering his hand, and Trombley is — allowing himself to be petted.

"Just showed up one day," Brad explains later, as Nate putters around his kitchen, apologizing for intruding and promising he'll clean up after, thank you so much, sorry again it's so last minute, the oven in Pendleton just completely broke down, etc. Brad hands him a measuring cup. "We think maybe somebody put him out."

"Good of you to take him in," Nate says. "I didn't know you were a cat person."

Brad shrugs. "What greater gift than the love of a cat?"

"Charles Dickens," Nate says, smiling, and Brad returns it. He can appreciate the proper appreciation of a good quote.

Brad feeds Trombley while Nate sifts flour and measures syrup and cuts butter into batter (whatever that means). Ray is passed out in his room after a week during which Brad is pretty sure he slept no more than twenty hours, total. Nate seems to have a handle on things in the kitchen, so Brad retreats to his room. He reviews lines of code to a rising smell of white chocolate cranberry.

A tap on his door makes him look up. 

"Saved some for you and your roommate," Nate says, holding out a perfectly-arranged plate.

The cookies taste even better than they look. "These are gonna be the most spoiled Peer Mediators in the world," Brad tells him.

Nate laughs and swirls the teabag in his cup. "They deserve to be. We didn't get a lot of applicants this year, but the quality more than makes up for it."

"You put them through their paces?"

"It's a three-day training, not boot camp."

"Nobody brought me cookies when I finished IT training, that's all I'm saying."

"If you'd told me, I would have."

Brad bites down hard on cranberry and chocolate. Nate smiles around the rim of his borrowed cup.

 

* * *

 

Ray wakes up around midnight and shuffles into the kitchen. Next to the plate of cookies stands a piece of paper folded up into a tent. Brad's watching a war documentary. The cat sits with him, wide eyes transfixed by the explosions on screen.

Ray yawns as he reads the thank-you note. "Nate was here?"

"Yeah."

"How was your date?"

"Go back to sleep."

"Don't tell me you only got baker's sugar out of this. Though, gotta say, these are _awesome_." Ray munches his way through a cookie. "Good wife, good life."

Brad flips him off without looking away from the TV.

 

* * *

 

Trombley steals one of the cookies, but thankfully doesn't eat it. What he does do is make a royal mess in the middle of the living room. 

"He k.o.'d that cookie," Ray complains as they vacuum crumbs from under the couch. "Did you see him? Completely lost his shit."

Trombley tries to pounce on the vacuum cable. Brad shoos him away. 

"Psycho cat," Ray mutters.

It's not a cookie, the next day. It's the first time Trombley has brought home kill, and Brad gets woken up at six a.m. by Ray screaming bloody murder.

"It's _dead_ , oh my god _it's dead_ what the _fuck_!"

"Ray, calm down. It's fine."

"It killed that! That! _It killed that mouse!_ "

Brad scoops the stiff little body into a paper bag. Double-bags it in plastic, and takes it out to the dumpster. When he gets back, Ray is holding his course reader like a shield. Trombley has all but flattened himself to the ground, slinking toward his roommate like this is the greatest game Ray has invented yet.

Brad picks up the cat and takes it to his room. "No," he tells Trombley's inquisitive face, and locks the door. 

He falls asleep to Trombley's paws pattering softly across the foot of his bed. When he wakes up again, his clock reads 8:30 and his window is open. There's no sign of the cat.

 

* * *

 

It's quarter past eleven on Sunday, and Nate is already in bed — and not looking forward to a nine a.m. lecture with McGraw — when there comes a knock at his door. He opens it to find Brad Colbert. His hair's tousled, jacket hanging open, looking as if he'd just run here. At eleven. On a school night.

Under these circumstances, Nate thinks that he can be forgiven if his brain short-circuits just a little bit.

"Hi," he manages. "Uh. Brad."

Brad holds out a shoebox. From inside comes the sound of a faint flutter-thump.

Nate blinks.

"Trombley got a bird," Brad says.

Nate opens his mouth. Closes it when he realizes he doesn't know what he's going to say. He lets Brad in.

Brad stands halfway between his desk and his bed, looking lost. "I was going to campus police, but. Sorry. I thought maybe you'd know."

And despite the oddity of this whole encounter, Nate feels a spot of warmth blossom in his chest. Because Brad came to him, yes, but it's out of genuine care for a living thing's well-being — not for, well. Whatever other scenarios are cluttering up Nate's headspace. 

"They'd have to call in a vet," he says, mentally going through the school and local emergency service numbers, "I mean, if it's a wild bird. Let me look it up."

There's an animal clinic about a mile off campus, google tells them. Nate calls the after-hours number posted on their website, gives Brad a thumbs up when someone actually answers. He grabs his jacket.

The night is sleepy with an age-old ease that Nate has come to associate with rural New England. He has to consciously lengthen his stride to keep up with Brad.

"How bad is it?" Nate ventures.

"One of its wings," Brad says. "Maybe the other, too. I don't know."

Nate looks at the thin, unhappy line of Brad's mouth and doesn't try to make further conversation.

Doc Bryan meets them at the clinic. Nate hangs back while Brad explains how he'd found his cat dragging something across the living room. The bird had been struggling. Brad doesn't know if the bird had gotten into the house, or if the cat had brought it in. 

"Thank you, Brad," the vet tells him. "I can take it from here. If you leave your contact info, I'll be in touch and let you know how the situation progresses."

"If there's anything else I can do," Brad begins.

"You've done your duty to this little fella," Doc Bryan says firmly. "I'll keep you updated."

Brad leaves his phone number and email. Nate resists the urge to hold the door for him when they leave.

"Sorry for bothering you so late," Brad says as they walk back. It's nearly midnight.

Nate stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets. "It's no problem."

Brad's mouth is still caught in a downturn, and he's looking down at the street instead of straight ahead, the way Nate is used to seeing him. The town lights fade behind them as they near the campus. It's just dark enough to make Nate feel brave. He syncs the rhythm of their steps and bumps Brad's shoulder with his own.

"Hey," he says, "I'm here for you."

Brad looks at him. He might be smiling. "Are you trying to peer-mediate me?"

"You're not having a peer conflict."

"I like to think of all living things as my peers," Brad deadpans. "We are all connected in Gaia."

"Should I be expecting an invitation to the knitting circle?"

"Who says you're invited?"

"I'm hurt."

"Good. You need more communion with your feminine side."

Nate bumps into him with more force this time. Brad elbows him gently back; he's definitely smiling now.

Brad walks him back to Pendleton. Nate hesitates at the door, because Brad isn't leaving, not yet. 

"Well," Nate says into the pause, "this is me."

Brad says nothing, and for a wild moment Nate wonders if he's missed a cue. A casual, _do you want to come in?_ maybe. Except he's never said those words, casual or otherwise, to anyone — not with intent, and certainly not with Brad Colbert standing on the other end of the question.

"Nate."

His heart decides to temporarily reside in his throat. "Yeah?"

"Thanks for helping me out with the bird. I really appreciate it."

Brad's lips are curved like an unaccented breve and _Christ_ almighty Nate is in so much trouble. "Anytime," he manages. "You know you can always come by."

"You have class in the morning?" Brad asks.

"Uh." It takes him a moment to remember. "Yeah. Anthropology of the Middle East." _But I could stay up for a while yet and still get six solid hours of sleep,_ his mind supplies helpfully, _if you want to stay._

Nate firmly tells that part of himself to shut up.

Brad claps him on the shoulder. "Get some sleep. I'll see you later." His hand lingers for just a second too long, the weight sinking like warmth into stone.

Nate turns around, fumbling with his fob key until the keypad beeps green. Once inside, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

He hears a door open.

"Hey. You okay?"

Nate opens his eyes and sees Mike, who's carrying a towel and toothbrush. 

"Hi," Nate says. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Late night at the library?" Mike asks sympathetically. 

Nate tries not to draw attention to the fact that he doesn't have a book bag anywhere on his person. "Yeah," he lies again. "Polybius is kicking my ass."

Mike nods. "We're doing a study group at the Classics house tomorrow, if you wanna come."

"Sounds good. Thanks."

"Get some sleep," Mike calls as the bathroom door swings shut behind him.

Nate breathes out.

 

* * *

 

He ends up reading Pindar until he falls asleep on ἑτέροισι δὲ κῦδος ἀγήραον παρέδωκ', wakes up with the book jammed under his elbow and a headache pulsing behind his eyes. The clock reads 8:45.

He makes it to class on time, not that it matters. McGraw is fiddling with the computer at the front of the lecture hall, but the screen remains resolutely powerpoint-free. 

Nate puts his head down on his arms and thinks of how there had been forty whole minutes, the first week of freshman year, when he might have avoided this current situation. He remembers walking into his freshman seminar — The Warrior in Classical Antiquity — head buzzing with Homeric metaphors and heroes in the shadow of Ilium. He'd walked into a class of eighteen guys, ten of whom were on the football team, and most of whom imagined Herodotus as an HBO series. 

Twenty minutes into a discussion on modern conceptions of antiquity, Nate wondered if he could switch seminars. Thirty minutes in, Espera scribbled _heard latin-am diasporic lit isn't full up_ on the back of Nate's syllabus. Nate looked around the table and seriously considered it. One of his classmates was asking a question about fighting for democracy, and the professor's brow was growing increasingly furrowed. 

And then someone said, "Should we clarify that _Gladiator_ was a fantasy film? Making that direct comparison to American culture is a slight _hamartia_."

Nate coughed to disguise a laugh. Espera rolled his eyes for approximately the forty-third time. After class, Nate told Espera to go ahead to lunch while he himself dawdled outside, waiting. He was hard to miss: all blond, blue-eyed, six-foot-something of him.

"Hi," he said, once they'd made eye contact. "Brad, right? I'm Nate."

Brad fell into step beside him. "The Classics major."

"Yeah. What about you?"

"Comp sci. Might go for the dual in engineering. Depends how much time I waste thanks to this class."

Nate's heart sank. "Not a fan of antiquity?"

"I only took Latin for the conversational skills." Brad was smiling. Nate nearly walked off the path. "I think it's important to understand the roots of Western tradition. Didn't think it'd make me the odd one out."

Nate laughed. "You and me both, then."

They talked all the way to the dining hall. They talked through lunch and back to the freshman quad, and by the time Nate put his bag down in his room, he'd decided. Latin-American Lit was fourteen girls and one Antonio Espera, but Nate didn't regret a thing. Brad had turned down four top-tier tech institutes for a liberal arts college, because "education means people; the machine is just one part of that," and Nate agreed. 

Because Brad is the kind of person Nate always dreamed he would meet at college. Just not quite like this, perhaps. 

"Yo," a voice says next to him. "This seat taken?"

Nate looks up and sees a can of Red Bull; behind it is Brad's roommate. Nate waves for him to sit. Ray drops his bag and puts his feet up on the row of chairs in front of them. Nate watches Ray chug the rest of his energy drink and feels vaguely ill.

"So," he begins.

"You know Brad, yeah?" Ray interrupts. Nate blinks. "Rhetorical question, of course you do. But just square with me, okay? Because between you and me, just you and me, you know Brad's one of those special people."

Nate realizes he's staring. "I. Sorry?"

Ray twists in his seat so they're talking face to face. "He doesn't have the same reactions as other people, right? I think it's a California Hebrew thing. Not like in a racist way, but you know, one anthro student to another. People have different ways of doing things."

Nate considers pointing out that he's not actually an Anthropology major, unlike Ray. He has a feeling that's not going to gain him any ground in this debate. Not that he even understands what the for or against are supposed to be.

"California's not that different, is it?" he tries.

"It's another planet. I mean this country's the size of an Endor moon, miracle it ever came together. Where are you from?"

"Maryland, but—"

"Yeah, see, it's different on the East Coast. Shit's old here, homes. Out in California, my granny would be a national treasure."

Down at the front, McGraw has finally fired up the powerpoint. Ray drops his voice but keeps talking. Nate furtively picks up his pencil and pretends to take notes. 

"See, Brad — Brad's got an old soul, you know what I mean? Not like wise or anything, 'cause he's a dumbass, but I love him like a brother. But he's a dumbass. It's like glaciers living among people. You think they'd melt since they're ice, but there's all this other shit mixed up with the ice, too." Ray pauses for another sip of Red Bull. "Brad's like that."

Nate wonders if Ray is expecting an answer, or if he's now free to listen to McGraw's lecture on — what sounds like a horribly sexist interpretation of marriage practices in pre-Islamic Arabia.

Ray gives him a friendly thump on the shoulder. "So. Good talk. And good luck, yeah? I got your back."

"Yeah," Nate manages as Ray pulls a laptop out of his bag. "Okay. Thanks."

He has no idea what he's thanking Brad's roommate for, but Ray seems more preoccupied with Facebook anyway.

 

* * *

 

October colors the campus viburnum red and sugar maple bronze. The tree outside Pendleton is full gold, and Nate allows himself a moment to enjoy it before resuming his trudge up to the library. He spots someone waving at him from across the street. 

Brad jogs up to him, the crosswalk signal blinking in his wake. 

"Hey," he says, and Nate never knew before this moment that it was possible to smile with your whole body. "Doc Bryan called. He said the bird's recovering well, and they can release it in another week or so."

"That's great." 

"Yeah. Got lucky."

Nate matches his stride to Brad's. "The local wildlife are lucky to have you around," he teases.

"Well, I try to do my part. But it's some luck. Most birds don't survive a cat."

"You forget what they're are capable of sometimes."

"Yeah," Brad agrees, affection apparent in his voice. "Furry little killing machines."

They're nearing the major intersection on the western edge of campus. The library is in the opposite direction, but Nate figures he can study just as well at a cafe in town. Speaking of which.

"So. Where are you going?"

Brad slows his steps. "I was following you."

Nate stops beside him. "I was following _you_."

There's a pause.

They laugh at the same time. Nate says, "Well, I was going to the library, but—"

"Do you want to get coffee?"

Something goes _ba-dum_ in Nate's chest. "Uh," he manages.

"We could go to the library cafe," Brad continues, "if you're heading there anyway."

"Okay." Nate nearly trips over the two syllables. "Yeah, sounds good."

 

* * *

 

There is, perhaps, some merit to Ray's theory of caffeine. The phone call from Doc Bryan had lifted Brad's mood some, after a torturous afternoon of linear algebra with a hundred Econ majors. Running into Nate also helps. A double shot of espresso from the library cafe completes the transformation.

Nate is looking over a syllabus when Brad returns from the counter.

"What class?"

"Anthro." The way Nate says it makes Brad raise an eyebrow. "It's with McGraw. Mostly I'm getting a lesson in why tenure isn't always a great idea."

"Need freedom to pursue academic inquiry, wherever it may take you."

"Some freedoms only look that way on the surface," Nate says.

Brad thinks it over; he's not sure if he disagrees. "Are you in that class with Ray?"

"Yeah." Nate hesitates for a second. "It's a big class."

"It's the easiest elective for majors. I didn't know you're interested in anthropology."

"I'm not," Nate admits. "It was the only other class I could fit into my schedule, after the Classics department put all the Greek classes during high traffic slots."

"How do you always end up doing this? Last year it was Warriors, now McGraw?"

"You were in that class, too."

"I wasn't the self-hating Classics major stuck in a room with seventeen bros who couldn't tell _300_ from Thucydides."

"Sixteen."

"What?"

"You counted yourself."

Nate's looking directly at him. Brad drinks his coffee. Nate starts to say something else, but gets distracted by a passing student.

"Walt!" Nate waves at the blond guy who just walked in. "Hey. Didn't see you at lunch."

"Oh. Hey, Nate." The guy — Walt — stops at their table. He looks a bit lost. _Freshman_ , Brad decides.

Nate frowns at Walt's expression. "You okay?"

"Yeah, um." Walt looks down at his hands. In a very small voice, he says, "I ran over a squirrel on my way to campus."

He looks utterly devastated. Nate pulls up a chair. It just ran into the road, Walt explains in that same small voice. One minute it was running and then it was just. Flat. 

"My cat keeps bringing dead animals into the house," Brad offers. Walt stares at him like he's just noticed there's a third person at the table. Brad shrugs. "It sucks, but."

"I had a cat when I was a kid," Walt says. "She was a rescue."

"I'm friends with a bunch of cat ladies," Nate remarks. "Brad, this is Walt Hasser, one of my rookie Peer Mediators. He's doing engineering, too."

"Brad Colbert?" Walt asks, as they belatedly shake hands.

Brad raises an eyebrow. "Nice to meet you."

"Yes. I mean, I've heard about you. From other students, I mean," Walt hastily amends, "since the engineering program's not that big, and everybody knows you. About you."

Brad doesn't ask. "Sounds like I have some friends I've never met."

"Definitely need to socialize more," Nate says with a straight face. "Start with Walt. You guys can math at each other, or whatever it is engineers do when human beings aren't around."

Walt is watching the both of them with something like admiration, squirrel trauma forgotten for the moment. Brad gives Nate a look. Nate just grins back.

 

* * *

 

Brad's not really the mentoring type — doesn't have ducklings trailing after him the way Nate does — but when Walt talks about physics it's with genuine fascination. He cares, just like Nate said. And Nate's people instincts are almost always spot-on. Brad can respect that. Anyway, helping Walt study for his midterms is good review for him, too.

Predictably, Ray finds the entire thing hilarious. First a cat, now a freshman.

"W-H-I-double-P-E-D, homes. Hey, it happens to the best of us, and nothing either of our gods can do about it."

"I'm a man of science. I have no gods."

Ray gets this shit-eating grin on his face. "Sure you thought that through? What are you gonna shout when Nate finally gets over his Puritan-bred sexual ethics and—"

Brad chucks a pillow at him. He goes to the fridge for a can of soda. Ray clutches the pillow to his chest, feigning a swoon.

"Oh, _science_. Sweet fucking electromagnetism—"

Brad slams the fridge shut. He slams his bedroom door, too, for good measure. Ray's mocking voice carries through the thin plaster.

" _Oh yeah, baby! Connect my circuits!_ "

Brad presses the cold soda can against his face. The cat curls around his ankles. Gives him a questioning look, as if waiting for orders.

"Stay," Brad tells the cat. Trombley swishes his tail.

 

* * *

 

"Sup." Espera pulls a chair up to his library table.

Brad waves in acknowledgement, not looking away from the words on the page. His book is on four-hour reserve, and he needs every minute with it if he wants a decent grade from Mattis.

"You going to Meesh's tonight?"

"Not this week," Brad says absently.

"Scared of the po-po?"

"They have been unusually active."

"What, that sukkah shit? Schwetje probably sent the anonymous tip himself, trying to get some extra credit for his lobotomized excuse of a fraternity. It was the possums."

"It was vandalism, and I'll thank you not to belittle the discrimination against my mother's people."

"Hey, dawg, no need to lecture _me_ on systemic violence against minorities. Just saying. We'll be at Meesh's if you wanna come by for some of the good shit."

 

* * *

 

"I need a drink," Ray says when he wakes from an unscheduled nap on Friday evening.

"Don't go to the Ronda," Brad advises. "Campus police are gonna be busting parties this week."

"In a futile attempt to stop underage drinking and general tomfoolery. Which, I repeat, will be futile."

"They'll still try."

"Makes no sense. If DK actually vandalized the sukkah, then they should bust the Lodge. Ronda's just a circle-jerk of horny varsity jocks."

"The system works in mysterious ways."

"Think you got the police mixed up with God," Ray says.

Brad watches him pull on his shoes. "Be careful anyway."

Ray rolls his eyes. "Chillax. I'm just going to Pendleton."

"Baptista?"

"Yeah."

"Does he even have valid ID?"

"Reyes does."

"Thought he doesn't drink."

"He doesn't. Says it fucks with his chakra."

"Call me if you can't find your way home."

Ray throws a cheerful salute on his way out. "Yes, sir."

 

* * *

 

He gets the first text just after one a.m. 

_HIIIJK BRADD,_ it reads, followed by:

_BRAAD_

_YR MYS BEST FREIJSD BREAD_

_MUY BEST BREAD_

_IN TH EWHOOOOL WOLRD_

Brad nudges Trombley off his bed so he can sit down. He writes back: _are you still at pendleton? you need to go sleep_

His phone buzzes again minutes later: _NOOOOOOOOOOM. NO M NOT SLEEP_

_SLEEPY_

_NOTSLEERTPY_

And then: _heeeeyb rad_

_WE SHOILD AVADF A DDANCE PARTIR Y!!1 wHOOOOOO homes_

Because of course, when all the rest of his vocabulary has gone, "homes" _would_ be Ray Person's famous last word. Brad grabs his jacket and double-checks the bus schedule before heading up to campus to collect his roommate.

Ray barely makes it to the couch before he passes out. Brad pulls a blanket over him. Reyes said Ray didn't drink that much, but his chi was off balance, so he should probably sleep it off. 

Brad makes himself a bowl of cereal and powers through the ten-page essay for Mattis. The sky is just lightening with false dawn when he finally turns off his laptop. He stretches, checks on Ray (sound asleep) and looks out the window. Between the building and the parking lot, a pale yellow shape stalks through the grass — patrolling a perimeter, almost. 

Brad leaves the window open for when Trombley decides to come home.

 

* * *

 

"I heard Hasser's been studying with _Colbert_."

"Shit. Isn't he the one who's like financing his tuition with black hat hacking?"

"Did you know they call him the Iceman? I mean like, cyber mobsters call him that."

"What, like, code names?"

"Iceman's a dumb codename."

"Shhh!"

Ray's heard it all before, and frankly the only thing funnier than the rumors are Brad's reactions to them ("One misdemeanor charge at an uptight high school and suddenly I'm the Boris Grishenko of campus"). Walt's probably heard it all, too, if his idol-worship of Brad is any indication. At least he's smart enough to keep his mouth shut. 

Actually, Walt's kind of a genius. Not that Ray's about to tell him; all-American national merit scholar already has enough going for his ego, even without Brad "The Iceman" Colbert's mentorship. 

Ray strolls significantly past the whispering freshman and watches them jump. ("Is that his roommate?" " _Shhh!_ ") Nate's sitting near the front. Ray takes the empty seat next to him. The only other person sitting this close to the professor is the TA, Kocher — poor bastard. Lost the lottery getting McGraw as his freshman adviser, then got stuck with him as a thesis adviser, too. Ray mentally tosses some salt over his shoulder. No way is that going to be him, come senior year.

"Have you started on the final paper?" Nate asks.

Ray fires up his laptop. "It'll happen when it happens."

"It's twenty pages."

"Eckloff assigned twenty-five last semester."

Nate looks somewhere between skeptical and impressed.

Ray grins at him. "So when are you done with finals?"

"Twenty-second."

"Shit, Friday?"

"Ferrando scheduled our Greek final for that morning."

"Com-fucking-miserations, homes."

Nate shrugs. "Are you going home for break?" he asks after a pause.

"Nah, helping Eckloff with some grading and maybe a bit of research. I'm staying right here."

"Oh," says Nate, sounding almost guilty. Ray looks away from his laptop.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Your poker face is shit."

"No, well. I thought you were going home," Nate says. "And I thought Brad would be here by himself, when he said he wasn't, so I invited him over."

Ray stares.

"I didn't realize you guys would've both been here," Nate finishes earnestly.

Ray snaps his laptop shut. "Motherf—" He catches himself as McGraw walks past to talk to Kocher. Ray waits until he's out of earshot before rounding on Nate again. "Look, it's fine. This is just the first I've heard. I assume Brad didn't tell me because his head's so far up his ass you'd need a deep six recon team to find it, but we'll have some roomie time and discuss. Seriously," Ray adds when Nate still doesn't look convinced, "I'm gonna be working mostly, and Brad spent last Christmas break being completely nocturnal so I barely saw him 'til the first day of classes anyway."

"I didn't realize," Nate says again. There's another pause. "Do you guys only go home for summer break?"

Ray studies Nate for a moment. He's kind of a stupidly-open book, and right now his face is all polite curiosity; he honestly doesn't know. Well, Brad's business is his own, however fucked up said business might be when the CEO is Brad fucking Colbert, and it's not like Ray runs around blabbing about trouble at home either. 

"Brad was here doing research over the summer," he tells Nate carefully. "But yeah, it's pretty much situation normal."

"Okay, I just— I really didn't know."

"It's fucking fine." Ray mock punches his shoulder. "Hey. I got your back."

Nate gives him a smile. "Yeah. Thanks."

 

* * *

 

"I know you barely have two and a half friends to rub together thanks to your cyborg social ineptitude," Ray declaims, "but even you gotta admit this is a little weird."

Brad bumps Ray out of the way to get at the fridge. "It's not weird."

" _Christmas_ , homes. Two and a half weeks. That is firmly into the territory of weird, maybe approaching the frontiers of romance-novel plot point land."

There's no soda left. Brad settles for orange juice. He turns to the cupboards and finds Ray blocking his path to any sort of drinking vessel.

"What's your point?"

Ray arcs one eyebrow. "That it'd be a lot faster if you just propositioned him right now?"

"Person, I don't know what kind of fantasies populate your sex-crazed inbred brain," Brad reaches over Ray's head to snag a mug from the top shelf, "but I can assure you that there will be no propositioning of any kind, at any time, between myself and Nate Fick."

"Okay, pause for _ex post facto_ ," Ray says, "because he is totally into you. You know that, right?"

Brad leaves the juice carton on the counter. 

"Do you need flowcharts or something?" Ray calls after him. Brad doesn't even bother slamming the door.

He puts the cup down next to his alarm clock; 11:59 ticks over to 12:00. He crosses another day off his mental calendar.

 

* * *

 

The semester ends in a flurry of problem sets and one programming final that Brad could have done in his sleep. It ends with Ray waving bye at the door, then quickly shutting it before Trombley can follow Brad outside. 

They take the train down to Baltimore.

"I should warn you," Nate says, "my family can be a bit much."

"Quantitative or qualitatively speaking?" 

"Both. Well, depends what you mean by quantity. But if you ever feel uncomfortable or anything, just tell me. Grandaunt Mary would sooner sell the farm than discomfit a guest in her home — in any of our homes."

"Your family has a _farm_?"

"Metaphorically," Nate says, then after a pause, "I mean, it doesn't really have enough acreage to count as a farm."

"I feel like I'm walking into a Laura Ingalls Wilder book," Brad informs him.

"You read those?"

Nate's face lights up when he talks about something he loves, and the next hour of conversation revolves around prairies and wagon trails and Almanzo's mother's recipes. Morning creeps toward afternoon. Brad watches Nate follow the westerly sun with something like wistfulness in his eyes.

"Maybe I was born in the wrong era," Nate says.

"No frontiers left to explore?"

"No dragons left to slay."

"PETA would ride your knight-armored ass to Rushmore and back before they let you take a sword anywhere near an endangered mythical creature. You'd have granola-powered college activists chaining themselves to dragons in protest."

Nate's whole body pitches forward as he laughs at the mental image.

The train rumbles past sparse strips of woodland towns. Nate dozes off somewhere south of Wilmington. The afternoon light turns his hair bronze and gold. 

Frontiers are subjective, Brad decides. He's never considered himself an explorer, not in the sense of Pa or Laura, seeking home out west. Maryland might as well be a New World. But Nate is familiar. Nate refused to let him spend Christmas alone, and Brad followed his lead without question. Nate has no damsels to rescue in this life, but it doesn't stop him from trying.

Brad tears his eyes away. The Susquehanna is a glimmer of blue flowing into Chesapeake Bay. Baltimore lies just ahead.

 

* * *

 

Nate's mother kisses her son on both cheeks the minute he steps into the house. She's a full two hands shorter than Nate, but the family resemblance is strong.

His own greeting consists of a warm smile and a handshake. "You must be Brad."

Thankfully she doesn't try to hug him. Brad returns her smile. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you for having me over, Mrs. Fick. I really appreciate it."

"Gracious. Nathaniel, where _did_ you find such a well-mannered gentleman?"

A groan from the adjoining hallway. " _Mom._ "

She laughs, turning back to Brad. "Call me Jane, please. As far as this town's concerned, Mrs. Fick is still my mother-in-law. Come in, come in!"

Jane ushers them upstairs. "Leonard's getting in tomorrow. I guess he's staying with Gale, since Best Western's all filled up and the den's still got some caulking before it's fit for habitation. You'll have to excuse the crowded quarters, Brad. I've cleared out some of Nate's closet space for you, it's right over there. Now, you boys get settled. I'll be right back with the pump for that air mattress."

She leaves a clock-ticking silence in her wake. 

Nate huffs a laugh as they set their bags down. "So. That's my mom."

"I see where you get it from."

"Are you calling me overbearing?"

"Now, _Nathaniel_ , is that any way to talk about your mother?"

Nate throws a pillow at him. Brad catches it; he can't seem to stop smiling.

"That's yours," Nate says, grinning as well. "I'll go find you some sheets."

They return downstairs forty minutes later. Nate's sisters are home from school. Nate collects hugs from both of them and does the introductions. Hilary is eleven and an incessant ball of chatter. Julia "call me Jules" rolls her eyes at her little sister, sighs an appropriate greeting under her mother's watchful eye, and then escapes upstairs to her room.

"Julia's going through a 'phase,'" Jane stage whispers, and Brad can practically hear the air quotes.

 

* * *

 

Chat with Ray Person  
_December 23rd, 9:52p.m._

 **Ray:** how's it going  
**Ray:** meeting the parents?  
**Brad:** good  
**Brad:** they're nice  
**Ray:** gettin along w/ your future in laws?  
**Brad:** did you feed the cat  
**Ray:** yeah  
**Ray:** and i'm good too thanks for asking jerk  
**Brad:** you gonna be ok by yourself?  
**Ray:** i can defend myself against a pintsize opponent of the feline persuasion thanks  
**Ray:** walt's been over, he knows cats  
**Brad:** he's still on campus?  
**Ray:** yeah off season practice  
**Ray:** it snowed again can you believe it?  
**Ray:** fucking new england  
**Brad:** stay warm  
**Brad:** wear the hat i got you  
**Ray:** trombley decided to go outside  
**Ray:** ran into the snow and jumped about 5ft in the air  
**Ray:** what the fuck are cats  
**Brad:** they do that  
**Ray:** they're psycho  
**Ray:** anyway gotta dash  
**Ray:** party at meesh's  
**Brad:** k  
**Brad:** call me if you need bail  
**Ray:** fuck off  
**Ray:** you have fun with nate~  
**Brad:** talk to you later  
**Ray:** get some

 

* * *

 

Christmas with the Ficks is like something straight out of a Lifetime movie. Brad wakes up on the morning of the 25th to a patter of socked feet outside Nate's room. Hilary's excited shriek rouses the whole house. 

"Nate, wake up! Julia! Mom! It's _snowing_!"

The world outside is dusted with two inches of pristine white. Nate finds an extra pair of gloves for Brad. They help Hilary build a snowman ("A snow mouse! See, it has ears.") and clear the driveway en route. 

"I thought we were escaping the snow, coming to Maryland," Brad says.

The reply comes in the form of a snowball exploding in his face. Nate's grin is as wide as his sister's. And there's nothing for it, really, except to chase him across the yard. Nate shrieks like a girl when Brad stuffs a handful of snow down his back.

"Uncle, uncle! I surrender!" 

Brad relents just enough for Nate to get a foothold — and shove him into the snow. Nate smiles down at him. There are snowflakes caught in his eyelashes.

 _I could kiss you right now,_ Brad thinks.

Julia finds them splashing snow at each other and rolls her eyes. "Mom says come inside if you want Nutella hot chocolate." 

They leave their wet shoes in the garage. After brunch, there's presents by the fireplace (an actual-to-god _fireplace_ ). Nate hands him a round box. Brad opens it to find a dozen homemade cookies.

"Belated congrats on your IT certification," Nate says. Brad's heart clenches.

Julia gives Hilary a giant box with a curt, "Here." It's a chess set, and it earns her a happy squeal and a tight hug. Hilary immediately makes Nate sit down and play a game with her.

Brad takes the opportunity to sneak upstairs. When he comes back down, Nate is watching Julia play Hilary. Nate shrugs sheepishly. "She beat me in ten moves."

Brad hands him his present. Nate looks surprised. "You didn't have to."

"Hope you don't already have a copy."

It's an old edition of _The Wasteland and Other Poems_. The pages are just starting to yellow, wanting wear. 

"Figured you're up to your eyeballs in Homer already," Brad says.

Nate hugs him.

 

* * *

 

A veritable flock of Ficks descend upon the house for Christmas dinner. Somehow, they all cram into the dining room. There are too many cousins for even Brad to keep straight. He sits between Nate and his sisters, and is rewarded with an hour of Julia rolling her eyes and muttering counterpoint to the conversations around them.

Nate fills Brad in on bits of family history. Apparently, the Ficks know everybody who's ever been anybody in the history of the Atlantic seaboard. They've donated letters from Emerson to museums. And they've served in every single war America has ever fought — sometimes on both sides.

During a rousing debate over exactly how Cousin Gale is related to the David Fick who served under Lieutenant Colonel Proctor during the Revolutionary War, Jane gives Brad an apologetic smile. "Genealogy's a bit of a tradition with us, I'm afraid. I think everyone here could trace their ancestry back at least twelve generations. I don't know if you're interested in that kind of thing at all?"

Brad coughs. "Well, uh. I was adopted."

There's a sudden fork-clinking silence at their end of the table.

"That's cool," Julia says under her breath.

"Julia Louise!"

Nate looks horrified. Jane is all but flapping her hands, while several nearby cousins try to re-route the conversation into the relatively safer waters of reconnecting with relatives during Christmas. Beside him, Nate is trying to telegraph _abort mission_ at them.

Brad almost feels bad for saying, "Actually, my family's Jewish. Non-practicing."

"I had no idea," Nate whispers. "I mean, I knew you were non-practicing."

"It's fine," Brad tells him quickly. "It's not something that comes up."

"You folks celebrate Thanksgiving at least?" Cousin Leonard asks, as Jane makes a frantic shushing motion.

Brad saves her the trouble. "Sure. Vote Republican and everything."

This seems to appease Leonard. Though Nate is still looking at him with that guilty expression, even after conversation has resumed its normal volume. 

Hilary runs to the kitchen when it's time for dessert. She returns proudly with a platter of miniature cupcakes. (She'd made them herself; Brad's starting to suspect that she's actually cloned from Nate.) Leonard is saying something about gay liberals and hippies ruining America's image abroad. Cousin Daniel ("Training to be a priest," Julia supplies helpfully) periodically tries to interrupt with something about love thy neighbor. Nate looks worried, poking at a bit of cranberry sauce on his plate.

Hilary squeezes between Nate and Brad with her platter of cupcakes. She puts two on each of their plates.

"You should save some for everyone else," Nate chides. Hilary shrugs. She and Julia exchange a look; Julia takes two as well. Hilary drops off her last cupcake with Grandaunt Mary. Leonard notices a bit too late. 

"Any left for me, pumpkin?"

Hilary holds up her empty platter with a creditable look of surprise. "Oops."

Julia snorts around a bite of frosting.

 

* * *

 

"That's the worst of it," Nate says later, sleepy and half-muffled by his pillow. 

Brad shifts on his air mattress to look at him. He can just see Nate's face over the side of the bed.

"You make it sound worse than it was. They're nice."

"Mm." Nate closes his eyes. "Hilary really likes you."

"She's like a mini version of you."

"Ten times smarter. Vote her for president in thirty years."

"She gonna run as a Republican?"

"She can run whatever she wants," Nate murmurs. His breathing evens out.

Brad listens to the sound, letting it lull him to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Chat with Ray Person  
_December 31st, 11:28p.m._

 **Ray:** HAAAAAPPY NEW YEARRRRR  
**Ray:** don't forgett o kiss yur boyfriend  
**Ray:** at midgniht  
**Ray:** an other timesss

 

* * *

 

Despite the winter, the memories he takes away from Cockeysville are of warmth.

They bike around the neighborhood when the snow melts away. Nate shows Brad his old childhood haunts — the park, the library, his elementary school with its brightly-painted playground set. Nate is way too tall for the swings, not that it stops him from folding himself into the seat. Brad pushes him into motion and Nate grabs at the chains, laughing, sneakers dragging through wet mulch.

The evenings are spent watching Hilary school Nate at chess. Julia takes to bringing her laptop downstairs. She sits with Brad at the kitchen table, the two of them typing away — Brad on an experimental firewall project, Julia on what looks like website design.

Nate's parents are invited to a family friend's for New Year's Eve. Nate elects to stay home with Brad. Julia begs off, unsuccessfully, and is bundled into the minivan along with her sister. Hilary waves through the rear window as the car drives away.

Nate makes two cups of hot chocolate, and they watch channel 7's countdown to the new year. Nate curls up on the couch with Euripides' _Bacchae_. Brad flips through an annotated copy of _Macbeth_ he found on Nate's bookshelf.

"Not really celebratory reading," Brad notes.

Nate hums. "Tragedy isn't about sadness, necessarily. Catharsis. But mostly appreciation, I think. Of human frailty and of terrible splendor."

Brad looks at him. "You're going to be that professor."

"Which professor?"

"The one who goes on about truth and beauty while his students are snoozing in the back row."

That gets him a laugh. "Beauty pierces even the veil of sleep."

"Learning through osmosis. Wish my professors saw it that way."

"You fall asleep in class?"

"Only the boring ones."

"Which are?"

"Most of them."

"I love my classes, usually," Nate says. "Though some of my classmates are. Well."

"Cretinous ladder climbers?"

"Don't pull any punches on my account."

Brad shrugs. Nate is smiling. 

"I hated high school," Nate admits. "I thought college would be full of people like me. Or better than me. You know, people who genuinely cared."

"If more people were like you, we wouldn't need people like you to compensate for their fuck ups."

"Not you. You care."

"I'm just a techie."

"Sure," Nate says, easy and warm.

It's a comfortable evening, unhurried even by the countdown clock on TV. Nate nearly misses it because he's fallen asleep on the couch. Brad shakes him awake in time to see the ball drop.

"Mm," Nate sighs sleepily. Fireworks reflect in his green eyes. "Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year," Brad echoes, too aware of the distance between their bodies.

 

* * *

 

Walt meets them at the train station when they get back. Ray's sitting in the passenger seat.

"I'll see you later," Walt tells Ray quietly as Nate loads his bags into the trunk. Brad gets the feeling he wasn't supposed to overhear.

Ray and Brad take the bus back to their place. 

"So how was Christmas with the Ficks," Ray asks with an exaggerated eyebrow waggle.

Brag plays along. "Peaceful. Perfect. Nice to get away from hen-pecking roommates and spend time with someone who truly appreciates that glorious society called Solitude."

Ray puts a hand over his heart. "Why, Bradley. Are you saying I, your best bro forever, don't understand your needs?"

"My transcendental needs are well beyond your hick imagination, Joshua Ray."

Trombley meets them at the door with a chorus of meows, getting underfoot. Ray walks past Brad to the kitchen. He pats the side of his leg. "Come on, crazy cat. Chow time." And to Brad's amazement, Trombley goes.

"Walt trained the cat?"

"We've had some misunderstandings, I'll grant you, but I think we've now overcome our differences. Haven't we, Trombley?"

"Mrrow."

"Are you telling me Walt Hasser peer-mediated you and the cat?"

"Mrow mrow."

"Don't disrespect the mediation, homes. It's an ancient spiritual art cultivated by generations of Far East mystics and communists."

"That's meditation, you Philistine."

"And that was a joke, you snob."

They order wings for dinner. Brad is too tired to cook, and Ray with a stove is a disaster waiting to happen. Brad waits for the Nate interrogation to resume, but Ray looks oddly contemplative. Not that contemplation is foreign to Ray Person — Brad knows that his roommate is one of the smartest bastards that side of the humanities/science divide. Ray just doesn't present as a scholar. Even when he gets his double Ph.D., Brad expects Ray's office wall to be dominated by sci-fi infographs and NASCAR rather than diplomas.

Eventually Ray says, "XYZ's doing one-dollar cheese slice Friday nights."

"Today's Sunday," Brad reminds him. 

"Yeah, I know. Just saying, in case you missed the 411 being away in Maryland."

They chew in silence.

"Went with Walt last week," Ray says next. "Not an ideal date spot, but you know. Pizza was good."

Brad stares at him. Ray's looking down at the table, and his expression is one that takes Brad a couple seconds to place. 

"Are you _blushing_?"

"No!"

"You're redder than crawfish stew."

"Shut up. And what the fuck, crawfish? Who's the hick now?"

"Thought I'd appeal to your down-home sensibilities in what is clearly a time of great trauma." Brad leans back in his chair. "Walt Hasser, huh. You and him?"

Ray lifts his eyes, challenging and petulant in equal measure. "Yeah," he says. "Me and him."

Underwriting it is something that Brad recognizes — a kind of happiness as foreign to Ray as shame.

"You are so in over your head."

"Am not!"

"If I hacked your laptop, tell me I wouldn't find a dozen country romance playlists dedicated to your boyfriend."

"Shut up. I'm not a _girl_."

"Your music's made for girls." 

"Your face is made for girls." 

Ray's smiling, though, as he shoves his chair back and makes a show of stomping off to his room. "Anyway, I'm going out. Just so you know. Don't stay up."

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," Brad calls after him.

He gets a slammed door for his trouble.

Brad looks down at his half-finished dinner. There's a moment of pure silence. Then Trombley jumps onto the table and tries to stick his nose into the dipping sauce.

 

* * *

 

Ray starts spending his evenings on campus. Brad gets used to hearing the key in the lock at one in the morning, or later. Trombley ping-pongs between antsy and grumpy, depending on whether he's made another attempt at stalking through the three feet of snow blanketing the town.

Silence comes as a shock, and not one that Brad expected, after Maryland. The bone-biting weather keeps everyone indoors except for class or extreme necessity.

Coffee with Nate falls into neither category. The cafe is warm. Nate looks more tired than anyone has a right to be, the first week of semester. 

When Brad asks, Nate just shakes his head. "I miss home already," he admits. _Me, too,_ Brad doesn't say out loud. Nate excuses himself early to make a meeting with Dean Sixta. "I'll see you around?" he adds as he shrugs on his coat. 

Brad nods. "See you around."

Except he doesn't. Nate texts a couple of times — observations from his readings, or commentary on events happening around campus. Brad doesn't ask if he wants to go to any of them. He has a full course load, and so does Nate. The semester unfolds in a whirl of new books and schedules. Brad spends too many late nights staring at his laptop screen. Trombley yowls when Brad plays music on his speakers. It seems unfair that the cat happily ignores Ray's country pop playlists but objects to Air Supply.

The night Ray brings Walt back to their apartment, Brad heads up to campus himself. (He hasn't seen Nate in a week. Passing hellos between classes are a poor substitute.) The suite in Pendleton is a testament to the futility of policing underage drinking. Baptista hands him a beer as soon as he enters. Brad doesn't question the wisdom of alcohol on a Thursday night. Garza and Espera are discussing an immigration policy class in one corner. Reyes detaches himself from Patrick's side to clap Brad on the shoulder. 

"Why the negative energies, brother?"

"Shitty weather."

"Nature dictates many things, but not emotion. You need to take care of yourself."

Brad raises his beer bottle in a mock toast. "Thanks, brother."

Reyes is gracious enough to laugh it off. "I can understand sarcasm. But it is a sincere truth: we are our own best counselors."

Across the room, Espera is saying, "Am I the only one who sees the irony of Mattis teaching this class?"

"At least it's not McGraw."

"Dawg, he's chair of the Disciplinary Committee."

"McGraw?"

"Mattis. Him, Ferrando, Sixta, and two of our supremely under-qualified peers. That's the institution's justice, and it's fucked."

"Yo, Rudy. You know anything about this?" Garza calls. 

"About what?"

"You're friends with Jacks, right? There's one of your under-qualified peers," Garza says to Espera, who rolls his eyes. "Rudy, tell him. Jacks is the man."

"I only know Anthony in the context of football," Reyes replies diplomatically.

"No offense to you athletic types," Espera interrupts, "but Manimal is not the person I want overseeing sensitive student issues."

"They had open applications for student reps, man. Don't you remember the emails?"

"Yeah," says Espera. "I remember talking to Fick, and you know what he said? Him and Patterson — guys I'd actually trust to do the job — he said they've got enough on their plate, since admin pulled the plug on student mental health funding. RA's are already overworked, so it's just the Peer Mediators." 

"What about them?" Brad asks.

"It's just them looking out for us, dawg. And all the shady DC cases you hear about? Shit's gonna go down sooner or later."

"It's worked so far," Garza argues.

"So did the Roman Empire, until it didn't." Espera nods at Reyes. "No offense to your football bros."

Reyes shrugs, unconcerned. "I am an impartial third party, friends."

"You should run for committee," Patrick suggests. "Put that impartiality to good use."

Brad half-listens to the conversation devolve into an argument about the relative impact of committees on student life. The other half of his mind wonders if Nate ever comes by this suite. He thinks about cycling and swings and snow.

"Dining Committee can't even get Lucky Charms back for dinner," Garza says.

"Because the white man has arbitrarily designated cereal as a breakfast food."

Brad thinks about Nate eating breakfast on winter-bright mornings. Nate nodding off in front of the TV. Nate laughing with his sisters, his mother; with him. Nate and a house with a fireplace and the patter of socked feet on the stairs.

The beer tastes like bile in his mouth.

 

* * *

 

When he gets home, it's two a.m. and Ray's door is closed. There's no sound but the hum of the fridge.

Brad nudges the cat off his own bed. He doesn't remember falling asleep, but he wakes up to sun in his eyes and Trombley scratching at the door. He lets the cat outside.

He finds his phone and types, _fowler lecture at thibault tonight. relevant to your interests?_

Ray has already left for a tournament. There's a sticky note on the counter in his chicken scrawl. The fridge yields a can of tuna and leftover pizza. The milk is sour when he smells it.

Nate texts back, _Can't make it; if you go take some notes for me._

 

* * *

 

Nate's eyes are on the ground instead of on where he's going.

"Hey," Brad says. 

Nate looks up. His smile looks tired. "Brad. Hi."

Brad has seen Nate stressed, busy, exhausted and overworked from taking extra classes against his adviser's will. But never like this. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Nate says too quickly. "I mean, got a lot on my plate, I guess. How's your semester?"

"Not as bad as yours," Brad guesses.

"I'm fine, really." Nate looks up at the clock tower, though he's wearing a watch on his own wrist. "Actually, I gotta go meet Mike."

"Study session?"

"Huh?"

"For Greek."

"No, it's— Mike's not doing Greek this semester. He's already taken Homer. But we should have lunch sometime," Nate adds. "Catch up on stuff. How's Walt doing?"

"Ray's got him occupied."

"Oh. Of course." Nate grins a bit at that. "Hey, text me when you want to have lunch, yeah?"

"Yeah, okay," Brad says, and watches him go.

 

* * *

 

"Lilley was right there. He saw them go into that room and everybody else saw it, too."

"Man, if anybody was sober enough to remember, they'd be sober enough to stop it. This is the kind of unfounded shit the DC tries to weed out."

"Unfounded my abuela's pilgrim ass. You think somebody would make up that kind of story for attention?"

"I'm just saying. It's a party, and parties are for drinking the week away. Not that I personally approve."

"Dawg, this is not an inquiry into the stupid alcohol policy, which we can all agree is pretty fucking stupid. This is some real shit we're talking about."

"Hey, Rudy, you were there. You remember what happened?"

"I don't know, Gabe. I was looking after Craig. He got food poisoning from something."

It's another Thursday night. Brad nearly walked back out when he opened the door and found Espera arguing with Garza again. But Reyes waved him in with a nod toward the mini fridge. "Help yourself, brother." Brad bypassed the beer in favor of caffeinated soda.

For a guy who disdains institutions as a matter of principle, Brad thinks, Espera knows a lot more about the inner working of this school than he lets on. He braces himself, pops the soda tab, and asks, "What happened now?"

"The institution. Heard it from Stafford earlier."

"Stafford?"

"Freshman, works for _The Herald_. He plays ultimate with Fick."

"Most freshmen are still trying to figure out the difference between Thibault and Tyler."

"They can tell right from wrong. Anyway, I told you shit's going down with DC." Espera nods at Brad. "A chick on the softball team was raped at the DK Christmas party. _Herald_ got the scoop and it's running tomorrow, front page."

Garza shakes his head. "That's gotta be some ethical breach, if DC's already investigating."

"It should be a police matter," Brad points out.

"Should've been, but she didn't go to the police. Waited a month and then went to her RA, who sent her straight to Fick, who brought it to DC."

Brad puts down his drink.

"Schwetje missed a couple classes last week," Garza adds.

"Which proves my point. He saw it coming. Anybody that knows that frat could see it coming."

"Shit happens when people are drunk." Garza is mulish when it comes to his football team captain. "I know these guys. Just because they're athletes doesn't mean they're idiots. There's so much grey with mixed signals—"

"No," Espera interrupts hotly. "No, no, no. Garza, you are not allowed to engage in that kind of victim-blaming to my face."

"Friends, friends." Reyes finally interjects himself into the argument. "Let's not point any fingers. This is still hearsay."

Espera snorts. "And what I'm hearing them say, Rudy my man, is that shit is _fucked_."

 

* * *

 

When Brad gets home, Ray is sitting on the couch typing furiously at his laptop.

"Dude," Ray says with no preamble, "you hear about this thing with DK? I literally just got a text from Walt."

More frantic typing. Brad goes to the kitchen for a glass of water. 

" _Herald_ website just updated with tomorrow's issue, and it's already crashed twice. They need to get some new servers. But there's an archived copy. I'm telling you, somebody's going down in flames. And I don't mean the school paper."

Ray launches into an explanation of the sexual assault case ("DK are some motherfuckers, seriously"), the Peer Mediators' involvement in pushing it through DC ("DC actually stands for Disgustingly Compliant, those dicksucks"), the bureaucratic red tape ("More like bureaucratic fuckery, I mean, just listen to this—"), and the ghosts of past cases alumni are suddenly remembering.

"It's kind of insane," Ray concludes. "Facebook's blowing up."

Brad finishes his water. He rinses the cup and looks for the dishtowel.

Ray finally seems to notice that Brad hasn't said a word. He narrows his eyes. "What's up with you? Are you drunk?"

Brad dries the cup. "I was at Baptista's."

"Did you even hear anything I just said?"

"Try as I might otherwise."

Ray slams his laptop shut. He stands up. "What the fuck is your problem?"

"Excuse me?"

"You're gone the whole fucking day and I haven't heard you say more than two words since— Fuck, you talk more to the cat than to me."

Brad shoves the cup back into the cupboard. It clanks against a stack of bowls. "You realize you're going unhinged, right."

"I'm trying to talk to you!" Ray's voice rises with every successive word. "Fine, don't give a shit about DC, that's fine, but at least have the decency to listen to me when I'm _fucking talking to you!_ "

And that's not fair. "Has it occurred to you that this goes both ways?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I'm sorry, did you not notice? Could that possibly be because you have spent the last three weeks gazing into your boyfriend's eyes instead of paying attention to the rest of your life?"

"Don't you dare. You have no right, not when you're always off at Pendleton doing fuck knows what—"

"I was trying to give you space!"

" _Space?_ What'd you think we're— We were having _dinner!_ And if you actually stuck around once in a while, maybe you'd know, but no—"

"Well, I am _sorry_ ," Brad sneers, "for not picking up your long-distance telegraph from the middle of La-La Walt Hasser Disney Land, where you have set up permanent residence and cannot open your trailer-bred mouth without using his name like a common four-letter word."

"Because he's my boyfriend!" Ray shouts back. "Am I not allowed to talk about him? What do you want me to do, stick around like your housewife to fulfill the gaping hole in your life that's your inability to close down Nate? Is that what you want?"

Brad's hands are shaking. He bunches them into fists. "You've known him," he spits out, "what, four months?"

"And so what?"

The words stick in his throat. He heads for his room. "Forget it."

Ray follows. Trombley peers around the edge of Brad's door as Ray demands, "Are you fucking _jealous?_ Is that what this is?"

"I said forget it!"

"Brad, what the fuck!" Ray grabs his shoulder. "Why can't you just fucking _say something_ for once, just once—"

Brad shoves him away. Ray stumbles. There's a sharp yowl, and he turns to see Trombley skittering across the carpet, tail raised in alarm. Ray is doubled over, clutching his foot.

"Fuck! That fucking cat—"

Brad stands frozen. Ray scrabbles at the leg of his jeans. The material is ripped, darkening with color. His ankle is scored with parallel lines of red.

Brad nearly knocks his laptop off his desk in his haste to find a phone. 

"Health center," he hears himself say. "There's bandages— How bad is it? Let me—"

Ray knocks his hand away. He grabs Brad's phone instead. Brad watches Ray dial a number from memory. He's breathing hard, teeth grinding together. 

"Walt?" Ray says into the phone. "Yeah. Can you come pick me up? I need the health center. No, it's— No, just come with the car. It's fine. Call my number."

 

* * *

 

Walt shows up with Nate in the passenger seat. Brad watches Walt help Ray into the car. The door closes. Trombley hisses when Nate tries to approach him.

"How about some tea?" Nate asks.

"Yeah," Brad says, automatic, "okay, I'll—"

"You sit. I'll take care of it."

Brad sits at the kitchen table and watches Nate make tea, and it's too much, suddenly. Fingernails dig into his palms. He can't remember how to unclench his fists.

Nate does it for him, replacing tension with a green mug. He sits across from Brad. 

"How are you feeling?" Nate asks.

Brad looks down into the tea. The teabag reads _Twinings, Est. 1706_. It's Ray's. He'll have to buy more on the next shopping trip.

"We don't have to talk about it," Nate continues, "but you know, I did go through a very rigorous training for this. Three whole days with trust exercises and everything." 

His wry smile is audible. Trombley pads across the living room, toward him. Brad jerks his feet away from its approach. The cat freezes. Looks at him with round brown eyes.

"Brad?" 

"People who try to be kind," Brad says, "will always be at the mercy of those who aren't."

A pause.

Nate asks, "Which one are you?"

"Neither."

"Neither?"

"People like things that work in threes. But most times it's two."

Nate waits for him to go on. Brad thumbs the rim of his mug; steam condenses on his skin. 

"I had a friend growing up," Brad says. "I guess she was my best friend, but back then I didn't have any reason to use a superlative. It was just her. 

"We met this guy in high school. I remember she said, he's the only other person we can trust. Because everything seems more dramatic when you're fifteen. 

"They were both set on UC schools. I applied to East Coast colleges to make my parents happy. But I knew I'd choose whatever school they did.

"Senior spring, they started dating. I found out from a classmate. And he said—" Brad feels his lips twist in a mockery of humor. "He said he didn't want to mess things up between us, that's why they hadn't said anything, and weren't going to. Because I'd gotten into MIT. He said it wouldn't have worked out long distance. He thought that me and her—" Brad grips the mug, warmth seeping into his palms. 

"I guess it's easier," he finishes, "than thinking your friend has inappropriate feelings for you."

There's a long pause. 

Nate asks, "What happened then?"

"They got engaged last summer." Nate's eyes are tight with an unspoken _I'm sorry_. Brad hates this. "I'm happy for them," he says.

"Do you still talk?"

"Sure. It's nice having friends."

Nate falls silent again. Trombley is on the couch, peering at Brad like he's a puzzle. 

"Was that—" Nate hesitates. "What about your friends here?"

"What about them?"

"Do they know?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Why not?"

Brad shrugs. "Ray said I need new friends, when he found out."

"And what do you think?"

"You always make new friends."

"Some friends stay."

Brad shrugs again. 

Nate says, "There's Ray."

Brad untangles his fingers from the teabag string. "It's four years, at best. And after that..."

"After that?"

"People drift apart."

Nate looks torn. "That's not how it works. It might seem that way because of— But it's not. Not always."

"You know they say history rhymes."

"Your life isn't _history._ " Nate pauses then, as if something just occurred to him. "But you and Ray, you're not—"

"No," Brad says firmly. "No. Definitely not."

"Okay. I mean, not that it makes it any better."

"I'm used to it. Honestly."

"You shouldn't be."

"People are busy. You know how it is." He doesn't phrase it like an accusation, but Nate looks stricken. "I didn't mean—"

"No. I know I haven't been around much, and I genuinely regret it. Things have been crazy, but that's no excuse."

"It's okay."

Nate shakes his head. "It's not, and I'm sorry."

"I know you've been tied up with DC." At Nate's surprised look, Brad adds, "Espera heard it from someone on the paper. And Ray said it's all over Facebook."

"Yeah," Nate admits, "and it might get worse. People have been coming forward with stories, and it's — god, you can't even imagine."

"I think most people could. DK's record speaks for itself."

"I know. I just hope you're right." Nate looks troubled. He visibly shakes it off. "Sorry. This isn't about me."

"I'll be fine," Brad says. "Really."

"You deserve better than fine," Nate insists. "It doesn't always go wrong, you know. If you give it a chance. Some people don't deserve it, but sometimes — you just have to give them a chance."

That earnestness would be gullible on anyone else. On Nate, it's heartbreakingly sincere. Brad looks at him, green-eyed, open-hearted, and doesn't dare wonder what chances there are.

 

* * *

 

Nate takes the last bus up to campus. Brad walks him to the stop. Ray's still not home by the time he gets back.

Trombley gives him a wide berth, but always remains peripheral. Brad gets the feathered bell toy and crouches down. Trombley comes running at the first jingle. At the second, he's all but crawled into Brad's arms. Brad sinks his fingers into rough, orange fur. The cat is a purring ball of warmth.

Ray doesn't come home that night.

When the door opens the next morning, Brad is sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of instant coffee: extra sugar, no milk. Dark and disgustingly sweet — just the way Ray likes it.

"Hi," Brad says.

Ray sits down on the couch to untie his shoes. His ankle is bandaged. "Hi."

"How're you feeling?"

"Fine."

"Made you coffee."

Ray tosses his shoes aside. "Is this your way of apologizing?" 

"No."

Ray looks up then, finally. Brad's door is closed, the cat shut firmly behind it. Brad brings the coffee over.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I've been a shitty friend to you, and I tried to force you into being a shitty friend to me, as well." 

Ray gives the words a moment to sink in. He huffs a sound that might be a laugh, might be a sigh. "Only since you got back from Maryland. You did all right before that." He takes the mug and takes a sip.

Brad sits on the couch with him. Ray puts his feet up on the twelve-dollar IKEA bench they're using for a coffee table, and Brad doesn't comment.

"Can I ask you something?" Ray says at length.

"Shoot."

"What's the deal with you and Nate? I mean for real. Has he already told you no, or are you being a pussy?" 

Brad breathes, shallow. "No. It's not that." 

"Could you be a little less specific?"

"I don't know what the deal is." 

"Why not? Seriously. I don't understand this." 

"It's not a yes or no question." 

"Uh, 'Do you like me? Check yes or no' — hell yeah, I think it is." 

"Ray..." 

"I'm not throwing around the L word or anything, homes. But you know the little candy hearts? I'd say they've pretty much nailed it, because it really can be that obvious." 

The L-word is irrelevant, Brad doesn't say, because you either stick around or you don't. Love's got nothing to do with permanence. 

"Remind me to get you some for Valentine's Day," he quips instead.

"Bradley, I'll have you know I'm an honest man now. You'll have to look somewhere else for a whore."

It feels easier to smile by the light of day. 

Ray taps his mug, thinking. 

"Look," he says after a pause, "I'm just gonna say this once because I thought it was obvious, okay? You're my best friend. I got your back because I know you always got mine. This thing with Walt — he's along for the ride, yeah. But far as this metaphor goes, you've got shotgun."

Brad tries to focus his eyes on the far wall. It's blurring a bit. "Thanks," he manages before his throat tightens beyond speech.

Ray squeezes his shoulder, once. The cushions shift when he gets up from the couch.

Brad's phone rings.

 

* * *

 

"Nate."

Mike looks even more worried than usual. Nate pushes his plate aside to make room for him at the table. Eight a.m. is a dead time in the dining hall: too late for athletes grabbing breakfast before practice, too early for sleepy undergrads grabbing a bite before morning classes. Nate likes the undisturbed quiet. It's too rare a feeling, especially this semester. But given all the times Mike has been there for him — as an RA, as an academic mentor — this hardly counts as disturbance. 

Smiling feels natural. "Morning."

Mike doesn't seem to register the greeting. He places a print-out on the table. _Tri-County Gazette_ is emblazoned on the banner across the top. An online article, dated this morning. The byline reads: _We respect our source's wish to remain anonymous for reasons of personal safety._

"I don't know if you've seen this," Mike says. "Griego posted it to Facebook about half an hour ago."

Nate looks at him. Looks back down at the article. He feels his smile slip away as he reads. He gets as far as _Nanaya Boutros, freshman softball player_ and then he's running across the quad, across campus.

Naya isn't picking up her phone. Her voicemail is full. Nate's lungs are burning by the time he reaches Mathilda House.

The common room is dark with all the blinds pulled down. Nate finds Meesh sitting in an armchair, reading a book and balancing a pizza box on his knees. 

"Hey, dude."

"Have you seen Naya?"

Meesh looks up from his book. "Yeah, about an hour ago? She had her bags — I think she left for the weekend."

Nate bites back a curse. "Okay. Thanks, Meesh."

"Is something the matter?"

"No," Nate says automatically. "No, I mean, if you see her, tell her — just tell her I came by."

Meesh goes back to his reading. "Will do."

The sunlight hits him right in the eye when he steps back outside. Nate blinks away the blur. His phone buzzes with a new email. _Important_ reads the subject line. It's from Ferrando.

 _A troubling article appeared this morning in a local publication regarding the DK fraternity and allegations currently under investigation by the Disciplinary Committee,_ it reads. Nate skims over lines of filler verbosity. Words jump out at him: _breach of confidentiality_ and _case compromised_ and _investigating all sides_.

 _I have set up a meeting with Dean Sixta,_ Ferrando concludes. _Please be at my office at 2._

He doesn't understand. The _Herald_ should have been the only bombshell, and only then because Nate couldn't in good conscience tell Lilley to shut the fuck up about what he'd seen.

He calls Brad. 

"Hello?"

"Morning." Words tumble to a halt just behind his teeth. He breathes. "Hi. Sorry, but did you mention our conversation last night to anyone?" 

"No, of course not." A pause. "Why?"

"Nothing."

"Did something happen?"

"No, but — don't, okay? I didn't tell you anything. I mean, I really didn't. But if they ask—"

"Nate? What's going on?"

He stares up into the sun. "Nothing. Sorry. Look, I have to go."

"Nate—"

He hangs up.

 

* * *

 

By noon, Nate has called Naya twice more — to no avail — and fended off questions from four different classmates who'd all read the _Herald_ article and then got wind of the _Gazette_ account.

Nate silently curses Facebook and the digital era, as well as professors who don't enforce the no electronics rule during class.

At their two o'clock meeting, Dean Sixta regales him with a recap of the honor code and various other college propaganda that all students — including Nate — are subjected to the first day of their freshman orientation.

"This school's founded on standards," Sixta says. "A few, but _high_ standards, includin' academic and personal integrity. I's expect every student to remember that, meanin' you and Mr. Schwetje and the young lady layin' these upsettin' accusations." 

"Upse— Dean Sixta, this is a _criminal_ charge you are dealing with." 

"This office and this administration are aware, Nate," Ferrando says gravely. "But whoever sold this story to the _Gazette_ , that was also a serious ethical breach. This administration will investigate all allegations on the table. It will not be dictated by hearsay, but it will be dictated by fairness." 

"But the story doesn't even add up." 

"As I said, we cannot go on hearsay. But it has been printed—" 

"Erroneously! The case is in committee and you have testimony, and it's nothing like the the _Gazette_ article." 

"Yes. Which leaves us with two competing accounts." 

"With all due respect, sir," Nate holds tight to his anger, "we gave our sworn word, and it was heard in good faith, whereas the _Gazette_ article cites an anonymous source and _is entirely wrong_." 

"I understand you're upset. But unfortunately, that is not the issue on the table. We cannot let our personal feelings interfere with the process of justice." 

"The DC meets again next week," Sixta adds. "Professor Ferrando here and myself will be in contact wit' y'all parties involved. But until then, Mr. Fick, I suggest you keeps your head down."

 

* * *

 

Nate takes the bus down to Brad's apartment. He clutches his phone in his hand, but can't bring himself to call ahead. If Brad isn't in, he'll walk the mile and half back to campus — or maybe in the opposite direction.

Brad answers the door. 

"Hi," Nate begins, and can't think of a second word with which to follow that up. 

Brad takes one look at his face and asks, "Tea?"

He ends up telling Brad everything. Two cups of tea steam on the table and the cat sits on the windowsill, its orange tail curling like an upside-down question mark. He tells Brad because fuck confidentiality, this is a joke, all of it. A fucking joke.

"You don't have to believe me," Nate says and tries not to sound bitter. "I mean, I'm probably too _upset_ right now. I'm not being rational. Rationally — Jesus _Christ_ , half the people I talked to asked if I'd given a thought to how this might reflect on student athletics, since Schwetje's captain of the football team. The football team! I don't give a shit about the football team."

Brad looks worried, but he doesn't look skeptical. "I don't understand why someone would sell a story like that to _The Gazette_." 

"I don't understand what kind of shit paper would _print_ a story like that," Nate spits out. He grips the mug so hard he feels his palms start to burn.

"There must be a reason," Brad says, "tactically speaking." 

"It doesn't help anyone. Naya's probably gone home, and I don't blame her, and Schwetje apparently told Dean Sixta that DK would be more than happy to table whatever allegations were unnecessary to the current situation. Because clearly, it's more important to figure out whether I sold a piece of fiction to the local paper."

"Are they blaming _you_?" Brad sounds incredulous.

Nate shrugs. "Me, Naya, Mike, Lilley — anyone who's come forward. Anyone. _Fuck_ ," he says with feeling. "It's a fucking _joke_."

 

* * *

 

Saturday is spent meeting with Lilley and Mike and other Peer Mediators. They talk for four hours and come up with nothing better than, "let's wait and see what DC says." 

Naya emails to say she's at home. She doesn't answer when Nate emails back to ask how she's doing.

On Sunday, Nate turns the corner behind the library and comes face to face with Craig Schwetje. Griego shadows him. 

Schwetje turns Nate's curt hello into a one-sided conversation full of textbook statements on how disappointed he is by recent turns of events. Because he's not _accusing_ Nate of selling them out, of course, but everything is kind of up in the air right now, you know? They need to get back into the game soon as possible. This isn't what student life should be. There should be brotherhood — "You'd understand better as part of DK, Nate, I always said" — but instead there's this disunity.

"I mean, now we're stuck talking about our feelings because nobody has any hard facts. It's so gay. I mean, there are really no facts to go on at all, and some of the accusations were already far-fetched, like that chick—"

Nate punches him. 

For one, shattered moment he genuinely does not care. His hand stings. He doesn't care. Griego lunges for him; Nate plants his feet and shoves hard. He pulls his arm back a second time. 

" _Nate._ " 

An iron grip on his wrist — Patterson. 

Nate breathes hard. "Let go."

"Walk away from this," Patterson says. There's a quiet force in his words. Nate makes an aborted move toward Griego and Schwetje; Patterson holds him firm. "Walk. Away. Right now."

Frustration tightens in his chest. He shakes when he breathes, wrist bruising with strain. Nate jerks his arm free, and Patterson lets him go, steps stuttering with tension until finally halfway across the quad he breaks into a run.

"Fucking liberal fag," Griego mutters.

Patterson's fist connects with his nose. Schwetje catches Griego when he stumbles back. 

"Jesus, Bryan!"

Patterson stands there a moment, fists clenched; he turns his back without another word.

 

* * *

 

Griego swears all the way back to the Lodge. Craig can hear him swearing in the bathroom, over the running tap. He's still muttering under his breath when he goes upstairs to his room, a wad of tissues pressed to his nose. 

"You need some ice for that?" Craig asks uselessly. Griego slams his door.

Craig lets him go; he understands how disappointed Griego must feel. Craig himself never expected Nate to resort to physical violence, much less for Bryan to join in. Nate was never the most enthusiastic about Greek life, despite Craig's dedicated attempts to make him see the brotherhood. He knows that DK isn't the best frat around, but this isn't Harvard — though of course, Nate could have gotten into Harvard, had their year not been particularly brutal on East Coast applicants. 

Anyway, Craig always believed him to be a smart guy. But these past few weeks have really shaken up his impression of Nate Fick.

He's microwaving mac and cheese when someone knocks on the back door. Lilley probably forgot his keys again; Craig needs to find somewhere outside to hide the spare one.

He opens the door to Brad Colbert. 

They've only met in passing, but he remembers. Colbert has a bit of a reputation, after all. Craig would have tried to recruit him along with Nate, if all the rumors hadn't said that Colbert was playing a different league, a different game than all the other highballers of this college. Cyber criminals are no joke.

"Hey, Brad," Craig says. "What can I do for you?"

"I know you sold that story to _The Gazette_ ," Colbert says, "and I have solid evidence."

He smacks a sheaf of papers against Craig's chest. Craig grabs it on instinct. He slowly looks down.

It's an email exchange — between a "jstortworth1989@gmail.com" and the editor-in-chief of _The Tri-County Gazette_. The query is on a developing sexual assault case at the college.

 _This is my personal impression only,_ reads the reply from jstortworth1989. _When Naya saw her ex at the Christmas party I overheard her saying she wanted to hook up with him again. I guess they hadn't seen each other in a while. They were both pretty drunk. I think they got into a fight when they left the party together, Justin seemed kind of reluctant._

The next page is a string of numbers. Two red arrow tabs point out IP addresses. One for jstortworth1989, and a matching one for—

"That's Griego's email," Craig blurts.

"Along with two phone calls made from your landline, Thursday morning and evening."

"There's got to be a mistake." Then Craig's brain finally catches up with him. "And anyway, you can't use this in a court of law. This is _illegal_."

"I don't give a shit if it is. What I give a shit about is that every women's organization in the country will be burning effigies of this fraternity when this goes public. And even before that, your ass will no longer be enrolled at this school the minute this lands on Sixta's desk. So listen up and listen close." Colbert's looking him straight in the eye; Craig takes an involuntary step back. "You don't fuck with me. You don't fuck with my friends. And you do not fuck with Nate Fick."

He leaves without waiting for confirmation. The print-out crumples in Craig's grip. 

Craig goes upstairs, knocks twice on Griego's door. 

"What?"

Craig breathes and turns the handle. Griego is at his laptop, checking his email. His nose is bruised. A shadow of blood rims his upper lip. 

"We need to talk," Craig says. He pulls the door behind him shut.

 

* * *

 

On Monday, Nate wakes up to Mike banging on his door. _The Gazette_ has run a correction to the piece published Friday, February 7th, as it has since come to light that this was a falsified account, and _The Gazette_ apologizes to any/all parties named in this article. _The Gazette_ is an independent online magazine (est. 2003) dedicated to stories of social and local interest; views expressed by contributors do not necessarily reflect those of the _Gazette_ editorial board.

That afternoon, Sixta sends out a school-wide email regarding rumors circulating campus. There will be a Q&A with Dean of Faculty and Disciplinary Committee Chair, Professor Ferrando, and other student life officers this Wednesday. 8pm, Thibault Theater. Students are encouraged to attend. Students are also encouraged to seek help from Peer Mediators in times of crisis. The Mental Health Resource Room is available 24/7.

On Wednesday, the _Herald_ mid-week issue carries an op-ed penned by McGraw. It's 2,400 words long, takes up nearly two-thirds of the opinion columns, and boils down to: there is a liberal agenda against varsity athletes; the recent, malicious attack against the football team (i.e. Craig Schwetje) is unacceptable; the campus must be wary of unfounded allegations and fear of the unknown. 

Nate throws an entire stack of newspapers into the nearest recycling bin.

"Professor McGraw's point," Ferrando says when Nate brings it up on Thursday, "is that now is a time for unity. This campus needs to come together like a team. Mr. Schwetje has withdrawn his case against you, Nate. This office hopes that we can all bury some hatchets and not let our future be dictated by the past."

Nate goes to Mathilda House again that night. Again he finds only Meesh in the common room. Naya hasn't come back, Meesh informs him. No one's heard from her all week. If their RA knows anything, he's keeping it to himself.

Nate calls Naya on his way back to Pendleton. The stars are out, and a full moon casts long shadows.

She picks up on the third ring. "Hello?"

"Hey." Nate stops at a quiet street corner. "How are you?" 

"At home. Since, you know."

"Yeah." Nate wishes there were a better word to explain how utterly wrong all this is. 

"I've talked to Professor Mattis," Naya says. "He said— I mean, he explained what happened, with you and DK. I'm sorry you got caught up in this."

"No, don't, please. Don't apologize. I told you, we're in this together."

"You're not." Static buzzes down the line. "You don't have to do this."

"I know I haven't done you much good. And I'm sorry."

"That's not what I mean."

There's a long pause. 

"I saw McGraw's article," Naya says next.

Nate grimaces. "Yeah, everyone's talking about that instead of— I should have known. But we'll get back into it. I've been talking to Lilley, and he'll talk to Jacks before the next DC meeting."

"Nate," Naya says quietly, "it's okay. Professor Mattis already explained. It's not going anywhere."

"No." Nate grips his phone tight. "No, Naya, you have a case. A strong case. I've been hearing from other students, and we can—"

"But _I can't_." She breathes. "I'm sorry, but I'm not coming back."

"What?"

"I'm withdrawing for the rest of the year. Mattis is right. I can't be there right now."

"They just want you out of the way! You shouldn't be forced to leave. If anyone it should be—"

"It won't be." Naya's voice breaks. "They've never expelled anyone, and especially not— It doesn't matter. I just can't."

Nate stares at the empty campus around him. The lights are yellow, the trees empty and dark. 

"What are you going to do?"

"I'll find something," Naya says. "Don't worry about me, Nate. You take care of yourself."

"You, too," Nate echoes. The line goes dead.

 

* * *

 

At the DC meeting, the committee tables the case _sine die_ by a vote of four to one. Nate sits in the library for three hours that afternoon, staring at one page of Greek. He has a test tomorrow on two hundred lines of the _Iliad_. Letters crawl across his vision without any discernible meaning, and he tries to care.

Mike finds him wandering back into Pendleton around six. He steers Nate to the common room. "I ordered pizza for the whole dorm." Mike sits him down with a slice of chicken bacon ranch. Rudy waves hi. He's sharing a box of pepperoni with Pappy. Nate hears him say,

"Fear can be healthy. But I have never seen Craig that shitless. You never want to see a spirit so broken, you know?"

Pappy snorts. "How stupid was he anyway, to piss off Colbert?"

"He said he didn't."

"Bullshit. Colbert's not the kind of guy to blackmail someone for no reason."

Nate leaves his pizza on the couch. 

He remembers walking down this exact same path, four months ago, with a bird in a box and Brad's stride outmatching his. He remembers the awe in Walt's face when Nate introduced him. He remembers tea and snow and Brad saying, _I'm just a techie._

He's already run halfway to the bus stop when a car honks and pulls over. Walt leans out the window. 

"Hey, Nate. Where you going?"

Nate catches his breath. "Brad's place."

"Yeah? Want a ride?"

Nate gets in. He shuts his eyes when they pass the Colonial Apts sign, willing his heart to settle. 

Ray answers the door. "About time! I was wai— Oh. Nate."

Nate looks past Ray's quizzical expression. Behind him, Brad has emerged from his room. "Hey."

"Hi," Brad says.

"Can we talk?"

Brad follows Nate outside. Brad follows as Nate leads them away, on a circuitous route around the complex. Some of the snow is finally starting to melt. The road glistens like silicon. 

"So," Nate says at length, "you don't have to tell me, and you should know I'm grateful either way, for you being there these past couple of weeks even when I wasn't. But I have to ask..."

Brad looks at him steadily. 

Nate takes a breath. "Did you threaten Craig Schwetje to get him to drop the case against me?"

They've come to a stop near a lamp post. Its yellow light illuminates Brad's calm expression. 

"I could tell you, but it might be a felony."

Nate stares.

Brad glances at him. His poker face is flawless, but there's a smirk in his eyes. 

"I'm kidding," Brad says. "Nobody's going to jail."

Nate knows he should probably stop staring — and maybe investigate the tight, thumping feeling in his chest, because now is seriously not the time — but all he manages is,

"What did you do?"

Brad shrugs. "The story implicated you. But it didn't make any sense since you wouldn't endanger the case like that. It also helped DK, which I found a bit too convenient. So I did some snooping in their records—"

" _You hacked their network?_ "

"And phone records. It didn't take much. Someone in DK sent that story to the paper under a false name. I just pointed this out to Schwetje, and I guess he had a change of heart."

It takes Nate a couple seconds to find his voice again. "You did all that — why? Because of what I told you?"

"It wasn't that hard."

There's a buzzing in his head. "You had no reason to trust me."

Brad looks directly at him when he says, "Nate, you're the most decent human being I know. I'd trust your directions through a war zone if it came to that."

And Nate — Nate can't think about this anymore. A shaky laugh forces its way to his lips. "Well. I certainly hope it won't come to that."

Brad smiles like that's an adequate response, or adequate enough for him. When he starts walking again, Nate follows. 

It takes Nate nearly the whole way back to gather up the words. 

"So. Not exactly a war zone, but — how about dinner? With me?"

His ribcage reverberates double-time in the pause between answer and response. 

"I'd love to," Brad replies.

 

* * *

 

Ray's eyes go wide as saucers.

Then he chucks the cat toy at Brad — "About fucking time!" — and Trombley barrels into Brad in pursuit of the little llama on a string. Brad lets the cat have it. Trombley wrestle-rolls himself across the carpet, banging into various pieces of furniture en route.

"So we should work out a schedule," Ray says later, as Brad's making a cup of tea. "Because I think you guys are great and all, but some things you don't wanna share even among bros like—"

"Ray—"

"—just let me know when the long-repressed hanky-panky's finally going down, and I'll check myself out, bro's honor—"

" _Ray_."

"What?"

"It's just dinner," Brad says. "There will be no talk of schedules."

Ray waves it off with a loud _pfft_. "Homes, don't even. I'm all for ambiguous relationships and sexual freedom, but this is you and Nate Fick, and for truth, you two are the least likely people I know to give up on anything once you've made up your mind."

Brad takes his tea back to his room. "I'm not the one who can't let go of conspiracy theories."

"I'm not the one who spent two years courting my soul mate," Ray yells after him. "And I definitely did not spend Christmas with the in-laws!"

Brad shuts his door. His phone beeps. 

_Let's go somewhere nice,_ Nate wrote, followed by: _I want to do this right._

 

* * *

 

Public holidays, according to Meesh, are God's way of telling man to do good, feel good, and be artificially liberated from his human mind. When Poke points out that Valentine's Day isn't actually a public holiday, Meesh just shrugs and says that marijuana doesn't grow according to the Gregorian calendar.

At least February 14th fell on a weekend this year. Poke passes the joint. 

"Seriously, a _V-Day date_. Walked by Chez Albert and there they were. It's gotta be drugs in the water supply, 'cause everybody just horny for everybody round here."

Meesh blows a smoke ring. "Colbert is a cool dude. Aren't you happy for them?"

"Sure. Happy ever the fuck after."

"It's love," Meesh says sagely. 

"Nah, dawg. The white man's romance fetish, see, it doesn't apply to us. Not for me."

There's a _thump_ from the far corner. Rudy sits up, blinking owlishly. "Whoa. Brothers. My chakras are way out of whack."

Meesh snorts. Poke throws a water bottle at him. 

"Sleep it off, Reyes. Tomorrow, the revolution continues."


End file.
